Ning Army Camp.

Li Chi and Tang Pidi and the others went to the mountain entrance to observe the enemy’s position. From there, looking up, the wooden fort was clearly visible.

Tang Pidi had commissioned the fort himself through Master Yan’s craftsmen, and had drawn every plan with his own hands — so naturally he knew exactly which vantage points allowed observation of what.

But a man as meticulous and experienced as Prince Wu would have dismantled any tampering done during construction. The craftsmen wouldn’t have been able to hide anything from him. More importantly, even if the walls had been sabotaged somehow, with over a hundred thousand Left Martial Guard soldiers holding them, it hardly mattered. The walls didn’t need to keep the Ning army out — they needed to keep the Left Martial Guard locked in.

And it was certain that by now, Prince Wu’s men had gone over every inch of the fort inside and out, time and again.

“He’ll have sent large numbers of scouts into the rear mountains by now,” Xiahou Zhuo said. “He knows everything we know. And he knows we know he knows. But he has no other move — he has to show his soldiers he’s still looking for a way out. He can’t let the Left Martial Guard lose heart. Can’t let them lose faith.”

He could agonize privately when no one was watching. In front of his soldiers, he had to project nothing but confidence — had to laugh and joke and tell them: Look — heaven itself handed us this wooden fort. The Ning army spent all their effort building a shelter for us. Let them laugh at their own wasted labor.

And the soldiers would be reassured by the fort. They would mock the Ning army’s planning.

But Prince Wu, speaking those words — knowing what he knew — would find every one of them painful to say.

“This season, the mountain forest is thick,” Xiahou Zhuo continued. “They won’t starve outright. But after three months under siege, Left Martial Guard soldiers gnawing bark and eating leaves won’t inspire the same dread they do now.”

This was how Ning’s commanders were — even with every advantage secured, not a trace of contempt for their enemy. Men like Xiahou Zhuo had grown up with Prince Wu’s legend in their ears. To him, the situation carried a particular weight: Prince Wu was his blood — his father’s older brother.

“With most opponents,” Tang Pidi said, “I would consider sending someone in to talk. Fewer deaths is always better. But the opponent is Prince Wu. Talk is useless.”

Everyone understood. A hundred thousand Left Martial Guard soldiers — a hundred thousand of the finest garrison troops in existence. If they could win without shedding that blood, of course they should. A hundred thousand Left Martial Guard veterans would be like gaining a pillar of heaven.

Even if it were the same unit — but without Prince Wu at its head — a surrender was at least conceivable.

“Should I try?” Xiahou Zhuo asked, looking at Tang Pidi.

Tang Pidi shook his head. “No. First — it’s dangerous. Prince Wu is his own uncle, yes, but in the calculus of a hundred thousand soldiers’ lives against one nephew, the nephew loses. The moment you enter those mountains, he will hold you and use you as leverage.”

“Second — a man like Prince Wu, if he genuinely wanted to spare his soldiers, would have sent someone down already, without waiting for us to ask.”

Xiahou Zhuo considered it. Both points were sound.

His actual connection to Prince Wu was slight, in truth. By blood they should have been close — but in practice, they were strangers. A man of Xiahou Zhuo’s particular status couldn’t even be entered into the Yang imperial clan registry. So Prince Wu certainly felt no obligation to protect him — and if Xiahou Zhuo could be used as leverage against Li Chi, Prince Wu would not hesitate for a moment.

“Do you see that?” Tang Pidi raised his hand and pointed — to the highest point of that section of the mountain range, shaped like the spine of a fish. Even the trees thinned out near the very top, on both sides.

“When I was surveying this site, I considered doing something there too,” Tang Pidi said. “I don’t know whether the craftsmen actually followed through, since the fort was completed and the workers dismissed before Prince Wu arrived.”

He studied the fishbone ridge. “If it was done, it would give Prince Wu quite a shock.”

When Tang Pidi had personally climbed to that summit during his earlier survey, he’d found a massive fracture line running along the reverse face — directly above the wooden fort walls below. Properly leveraged, that slab of stone — dozens of zhang long — could be brought down and collapse a wide stretch of the fort walls.

Whether or not they planned to assault, it would have its uses. He’d sent word to Master Yan specifically mentioning it — asking the craftsmen to widen the fissure with wooden wedges while they had the chance.

But looking at the stone now, there was no sign of anything having been done. The workers likely hadn’t gotten to it.

“We should now increase our attention on Han Feibao and Marquis Guanting,” Li Chi said. “I’ve calculated the time it would take Han Feibao to enter Jingzhou — going around the Sanshan range adds over a thousand li, through rough terrain. That route takes at minimum twice as long as coming through Jingzhou directly.”

Tang Pidi nodded. Li Chi’s reply had mentioned it: he would do his best to ensure the enemies arrived in Jingzhou one at a time, queued neatly. If that held, the Ning army would not be overstretched.

Three months to deal with Prince Wu — by then, Han Feibao’s column would only just be rounding the long way in.

Li Chi was also thinking: once the news spread that Ning was busy besieging Prince Wu, would Marquis Guanting push hard and fast into Jingzhou, trying to seize Daxing City before Li Chi could turn his attention there?

By conventional logic, yes — they would want to occupy Daxing City before Li Chi had his hands free.

But they had no idea that Daxing City meant next to nothing to Li Chi.

Everyone else saw it as the heart of the Central Plains, the capital of the empire — the place whose capture meant mastery of all under heaven. They raced for it.

Li Chi had never seen Daxing City that way. Years ago, he had already commissioned Lian Xiansheng to begin building Chang’an.

Let the others race for Daxing City. He didn’t care.

Once Prince Wu was dealt with, the Ning army could wall up whoever had taken Daxing City and starve them out at leisure.

How long would the grain inside Daxing City last, after all?

While Han Feibao and Marquis Guanting were both fixed on Daxing City, Li Chi and Tang Pidi were fixed only on Prince Wu — and on whatever forces stood behind Han Feibao and the Marquis.

Those backers might know that Li Chi was building a new city in the northwest. What none of them would guess was that what he was building was a capital city.

Anyone looking at that location would assume it was a military stronghold near the frontier.

If Daxing City held any use for Li Chi at all, it was this: before Chang’an was finished, he might spend a brief time there — nothing more.

With the Ning army holding the Mangdang siege, the next task was to wait.

And at this very time, at the border between Yangzhou and Jingzhou, Marquis Guanting had indeed received intelligence reports of unusual Ning army movements.

Marquis Guanting was a man of striking appearance — barely into his twenties, the image of a cultured, elegant young nobleman. His background was impeccable: his father had once been Military Governor of Yuezhou, a proper territorial administrator of the highest rank. His own rise in Yuezhou had been smooth and well-supported.

Years earlier, still young, he had used the pretext of going to Daxing City to study — and had spent his time there building relationships among the capital’s powerful families.

Yang Xuanji had imagined it was himself those great Daxing families were waiting to receive. He had no idea they were waiting for Marquis Guanting.

“Our intelligence has returned,” said the man standing at the Marquis’s side — a scholar of about thirty, the single most important advisor in the Marquis’s circle, named Wang Yangchen.

Wang Yangchen looked at the Marquis. “Qingzhou shows Ning troop movements. Yuzhou too. And Jingzhou — the Prince of Ning Li Chi himself is in the field.”

He paused, then ventured: “Could they be digging a very large pit for Prince Wu?”

“Not going to dig,” Marquis Guanting replied. “That pit has been ready for a long time. Tang Pidi doesn’t improvise at the last moment — this was planned six months to a year in advance, minimum.”

Wang Yangchen said: “Then — should we begin to move?”

Marquis Guanting rose and began to pace. “By conventional reasoning, yes — with the Prince of Ning having committed nearly his entire force against Prince Wu, this would be the ideal moment for us to advance on Daxing City. But…”

He looked at Wang Yangchen: “Han Feibao is thinking exactly the same thing.”

Wang Yangchen smiled. “The Prince of Ning forced Han Feibao through Liangzhou into Jingzhou — a detour of nearly two thousand li, through difficult terrain. By the time he arrives in Jingzhou, his army will be exhausted — and yet he’ll still be desperately scrambling to grab Daxing City first.”

“Let him scramble,” Marquis Guanting said. “Pass the order — army to full readiness. Prepared to march on my signal.”

He smiled slightly. “We move toward Jingzhou only when intelligence confirms Han Feibao has entered it.”

“Once Han Feibao learns we’re moving,” Wang Yangchen said, “he’ll grow more frantic.”

The Marquis made a sound of agreement, still pacing.

“I’ve studied Li Chi carefully,” he said. “Every battle he’s fought, every major move he’s made over these years. And I’ve noticed something particular.”

“Strike second, hit first,” Wang Yangchen said.

The Marquis smiled. “You see it too.”

“Those who habitually strike second tend to be cunning strategists — typically because they lack the strength to strike first, and so they wait for the moment.”

“That’s true enough as a saying,” the Marquis replied. “But how many men in the world have achieved what the Prince of Ning has achieved?”

He looked at Wang Yangchen. “If you were in his place, would you have done better?”

Wang Yangchen considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

“So then…”

Marquis Guanting’s voice was calm. “From the very beginning I have said: Prince Wu is a commander — not a strongman. Han Feibao is a brute — he cannot even claim that title. And going further back — Li Xiongshu: a bandit and a fool. Gan Daode: a man without a name worth knowing. Yang Xuanji: a puppet on a string in a shadow play.”

“Go further still — Luo Geng of Youzhou: hesitant, vacillating, incapable of decision. Prince Yu Yang Jixing: ambitions as high as the sky, ability as thin as paper. And the great mountain bandit Yu Chaozong of the Yanshan — his one genuine achievement was recognizing Li Chi for what he was.”

He looked at Wang Yangchen. “In all this world, the only one who can truly be called a strongman — is only the Prince of Ning.”

Marquis Guanting walked to the window and gazed outside, speaking quietly.

“I am not his equal. So I have always been learning from him. But to call him my teacher…”

Wang Yangchen thought: If the Marquis speaks this way, doesn’t it imply too much pessimism about his own prospects?

“My lord—”

Before the words came out, the Marquis raised a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. But there’s nothing wrong with identifying your own shortcomings when contending for first place — that’s not false modesty.”

He smiled. “Know others clearly, and know yourself clearly.”

He paused. “If this student ends up defeating his teacher — now that would be the most satisfying thing in life.”